Getting a New Philosophy
by ALC Punk
Summary: Sam&Jack, a little drunkenness, a little UST. A bit of sap (I don't know where my brain is, these days).


SCAM: Stargate: SG-1 Disclaimers: Not mine. Rating: PG. Set: Randomly, probably season 4 or 5 (I'd say 6, but there is Daniel here.  
Spoilers: None, as far as I know.  
Archive: If you wish.  
Pairing: Sam/Jack Notes: Just, uh... a little something that had the beginning floating in my brain for a while. Title swiped from the Pet Shop Boys. ('Miserablism')  
  
Getting a New Philosophy by ALC Punk! (new byline courtesy of Little Red)  
  
It all should have gone so well. SG-1, out for a drink together, a team-building kind of night. Except that Major Sam Carter was angry.  
  
"Carter--" said Colonel Jack O'Neill, her commanding officer, trying to get her attention.  
  
He was failing. She turned to smile sweetly at the man on her other side. "Daniel, how was your side of the trip?"  
  
Dr. Daniel Jackson was not a stupid man. He shifted uncomfortably and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Uh, Sam, I think Jack's--"  
  
"Carter, listen--"  
  
"I'm not talking to him, Daniel. Now, tell me about your artifacts."  
  
"My... artifacts are fine. And I am getting out of this conversation, now. Teal'c?"  
  
"Indeed." The ex-first prime of Apophis stood without prompting.  
  
"Daniel--"  
  
"Have fun, Sam."  
  
She spluttered as the archeologist and the jaffa left the bar. "Deserters."  
  
"So... Carter..."  
  
Ignoring him, she waved at the man behind the bar. "Bartender?"  
  
He eyed her dubiously. "Ma'am?"  
  
"Scotch. Keep it coming."  
  
"Wanna play pool?"  
  
"Bartender?"  
  
"Ma'am?"  
  
"It's on his tab."  
  
"Oh, Carter, for cryin' out loud! I didn't MEAN to do it!"  
  
She whipped her head around and glared at him. He so had. And she would kill him where he stood if he didn't behave.  
  
"...yeah, on my tab."  
  
"Drinking game?"  
  
There was something salacious in his smirk. She glared harder, then turned back to the bartender who was setting down her glass. "Bartender, more scotch."  
  
"Ma'am, should you be drinking that much?"  
  
"I wouldn't bother her." Jack advised him.  
  
"Drink."  
  
He blinked. "Um, aren't I driving?"  
  
No. He was dying, if she had her way. "DRINK."  
  
"O-kay."  
  
He drank.  
  
Three hours later, Jack O'Neill wasn't regretting drinking. He was, instead, snoring. They had relocated to a booth at some point, and he was listing to one side on his bench, one hand around an empty shot glass. It was a soft snore and kind of cutely sibilant. Sam Carter wasn't paying attention to that, though. She was ranting. Finally. "And you got married again! How could you?!?"  
  
A snore answered her, and she finally noticed his non-awake state.  
  
"Damnit, Jack, you're not allowed to fall ashleep!"  
  
"Miss?"  
  
"What?" She tried to glare and realized, dimly, that she was failing.  
  
"It's closing time, ma'am."  
  
"Oh. Um... could you call us a cab?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"He looked grateful, Jack. Why the hell did he look grateful? And you're still asleep. And your hair is sticking out. It's so cute when it does that." Sam sighed. "I'm drunk, aren't I." She paused to eye the still-sleeping man on the other side of the booth. "Don't answer that."  
  
As he was, currently, sound asleep, he didn't. He did however continue to snore.  
  
The bartender had to help her get the sleepy colonel out to the cab. Unable to remember where the hell to leave him, Sam gave the driver her own address. Once there, she staggered up the path, the nearly-unconscious Air Force officer on one shoulder. It was a damned good thing she was so tall, she thought resentfully as she leaned him against the wall next to her door.  
  
He looked kind of decorative, there. Like a skinny Santa. All that was missing was the red hat and the beard. She considered this mental image for a moment, then shook her head. Nah.  
  
Finally fumbling out her keys, she opened the door and re-acquired the sleepy and drunken colonel. "They don't pay me enough."  
  
"No one ever does."  
  
"Awake, are we?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Good," she muttered. "You'll miss me being insubordinate and leaving you out here to sleep on the lawn."  
  
"It's cold, Carter."  
  
"You're asleep, sir."  
  
He yawned and shifted. "Why'm I here?"  
  
"Philosophy is Daniel's field, sir."  
  
"Right."  
  
They staggered into her house, the Colonel shutting the door and locking it while she waited. For some reason, she decided she didn't care what her neighbors thought. She was drunk, she was tired, and she was lonely. And he'd pissed her off. For a moment, she considered kicking him back outside. But if he got a cold she'd have to explain it to Janet.  
  
Which could, of course, be a fun conversation. Not.  
  
"I'll get a blanket and pillow for you."  
  
"Bathroom." He said, very carefully.  
  
She sighed. Fine. Bathroom first. They maneuvered down the hall, knocking over an end table and her coatrack before navigating the corner. She shoved him into the bathroom and pulled the door closed, then steadied herself on the wall. Huh. Maybe she was drunker than she'd thought.  
  
The sound of her commanding officer retching came through the door, and she winced. Poor man. It was her fault he was this drunk.  
  
Sam could remember tequila, at some point. On top of the scotch.  
  
Her stomach decided to announce that it wasn't all that happy with her, and she glared at it. "Hey. No sympathetic puking, damnit."  
  
Moving to the hall closet, Sam pulled out a few blankets and a pillow and made her way into the spare room where she tossed them on the bed. He could just... get them straight himself, she decided. She wasn't a damn housekeeper, after all.  
  
"I tried to tell them."  
  
She looked at the doorway, and blinked at him. He'd lost his shirt and boots and stood there in just his pants. "Huh?"  
  
"That I was..." He paused to inspect the bed. "Gosh. I feel so wanted, Carter."  
  
"I should've left you on the lawn." She walked past him and out into the hallway, trying to pretend that a half-naked Jack O'Neill wasn't something she would have fantasies about.  
  
He caught her arm. "I tried to tell them I was already married. They didn't buy it."  
  
"Why?" She studied the carpet under her boots, wondering if it needed replacing soon. The wear probably wasn't too bad on it, though, and she still liked the dark blue against the natural dark wood of the baseboard panels.  
  
"You don't act subservient enough."  
  
It took her several seconds to work through the implications of that, and she finally forced her eyes up to his. "I thought you'd be glad of that."  
  
"I am."  
  
She pulled her wrist from his grasp and started down the hallway to her own room. "Good night, sir."  
  
"Night, Carter."  
  
The door to the spare room closed with a soft thump.  
  
Sam stopped in the bathroom and washed her face before stumbling into her own room and undressing. A t-shirt and shorts were already on her pillow, luckily. They were slightly dusty from having been left there four days ago, but it was better than nothing. Especially since sleeping naked with her commanding officer down the hall was probably a bad idea.  
  
Once dressed in her nightclothes, she climbed into bed and curled up, staring sightlessly at the wall.  
  
Her mind didn't want to sleep. It didn't want to think, but it also didn't want to sleep. She tried closing her eyes and counting sheep (and then reciting the periodic table, and then counting in hexadecimal), but nothing seemed to work. Frustrated, she turned over onto her other side and glared towards her open bedroom door.  
  
This was his fault. She should have made the cab take him home, then she'd already be asleep and not remembering the fact that her commanding officer was asleep down the hall. And that he'd gotten married. And tried to get out of that marriage by claiming her as his wife. Which, really, wouldn't have worked anyway, since the regulations forbid that sort of thing. And they were lucky the Indorians hadn't looked deeper into their culture.  
  
Not that they had a chance to.  
  
Damnit.  
  
This was all his fault.  
  
And her feet were cold.  
  
Thumping a fist into the mattress, Sam attempted, once again, to sleep.  
  
It took effort, she had to start programming a new dialing program in BASIC before her brain slowed down (or filled up enough) to start drifting off.  
  
"Can't sleep."  
  
She opened her eyes reluctantly, and eyed the man standing in her doorway. He'd stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers and he was hovering. "What?"  
  
"I can't sleep."  
  
Uncharitably, she replied, "So go hit your head against something and give yourself a concussion."  
  
A smirk twitched across his lips, but he didn't say anything, just looked at her, then the floor, then her again.  
  
"I'm not making you sleep on the floor."  
  
"Good."  
  
She met his eyes and tried not to flinch away from the sudden awareness crackling between them. Or maybe it was nothing more than too much alcohol. Yeah. Alcohol. Reluctantly, she held up the edge of the blanket and waited.  
  
Jack eyed her for a moment, then came across the floor of her bedroom and slid under the blanket. Her bed wasn't huge, but it was large enough for them to lay down without having to touch. If they didn't want to. Closing her eyes, Sam sighed softly.  
  
"Night."  
  
"Night."  
  
A hand found hers under the covers, and Sam didn't object when their fingers curled around each other.  
  
Maybe now she could sleep.  
  
-f- 


End file.
